The postcard shown here came into inventory with a number of other World War II postcards, and it attracted my attention for a number of reasons, including, but not limited to, where a pilot might encounter a cavalryman trying to execute a jumpy, why the pilot is wearing a parachute (unless he’s going to be next on the horse), why we have THREE people in full uniform, and, most of all, what is that woman doing on the scene anyhow?
The answer to that last one is simple, really. She’s there to help sell the postcard, rather like the young lady shown here trying to wash her dog. The joke doesn’t have anything to do with WHO is washing the dog, nor how that person should be dressed. But at least she is a part of the gag, unlike the lady in the first postcard. And that rather scanty outfit is practical, as anyone who has washed a large dog will understand.
There are plenty of postcards ABOUT good-looking young women. What I was wondering about was how often the ladies walked into a joke where they were not essential, but just helpful in catching the eye of the customer. Here, for example, all we REALLY need for the gag are the cows. Having someone to milk the cows helps focus the joke. Having someone in high heels is not positively essential.
And there are some jokes which are just funnier, really, if the punchline goes to a woman. A man could just as easily have been walking Fido here. But he would have seemed either inconsiderate or just stupid, whereas this young lady can just be classified under, say, “Blonde Jokes” as we take the postcard to the cash register to buy it.
This joke didn’t particularly REQUIRE a woman either, or a very tiny woman (look at her height compared to that of the mailbox and/or newspaper. Of course, this was during World War II, when men overseas were thinking of the “little woman” back home.)
There is no reason for a female patient crossing her legs for this card. Would anybody have bought it without her?
And anybody at all could have been picking a peach. (At least she’s doing something. What is the SCOTTIE doing there? Are we going for double the market?)
The phenomenon does not begin at mid-century either. This joke from thirty years earlier could have been done—in fact WAS done—with two men in the role. But the artist wanted to draw a shapely female golfer, and I bet his sales figures corresponded with hers.
None of these ladies is quite as pointless as the bysitter in the first postcard. Somebody HAD to be around to deliver, and receive, this joke, and since we’re at the beach, why NOT a couple of healthy young women in 1930s bathing costumes?
And here, the speaker must really be female, to fit the punchline.
But, as people who used the same pun in different contexts pointed out, it did not necessarily have to be the pinup model type preferred by other artists.
The shapely ladies who produce the punchline (or, as here, the straight line) are simply there to nourish the sales figures, to help profits grow. We could call them womanure. But I don’t think we will.
A jolly collection which came into inventory here in Blogsytown is about one fifth of a set of Corsaires. These are colorful portraits of freebooters and privateers (I don’t see ANYOE using the word “pirates”) from Dominique Leroy here–a captain also known as the Pistol Corsair, who was captain of the Foudroyant (Lightning)—to ship’s carpenters, sail specialists, and even onshore support staff.
There were eighty-six portraits in the full set, each with a name, a nickname (essential for a pi…corsair), and the role they played aboard whatever ship each served. It’s a maritime malefactor trading card set–I was half expecting a table of statistics on the back, with voyages, battles, and loot recorded there. They are individual, colorful, and completely the product of the imagination of artist Etienne Blandin.
Born into a sailing family in 1903, Etienne was determined to follow the family trade. But he was expected to do things the right way: one didn’t just run away to sea. His school had what we would call Sailor Prep courses. Standards were high, and Etienne simply couldn’t manage the right grades in math, of all things. (Essential for navigation, I suppose.) Disappointed, he took the advice of his father, who felt the boy had artistic ability. (Wait a minute: don’t these stories usually work the other way round?)
He became a painter and an art teacher, but experienced a sort of midlife crisis when only 28. He’d been painting landscapes and still lives and Biblical scenes, but he looked at his work and decided something was missing. He gave up painting and turned to studying maritime history.
When he took up his brush again, he was painting portraits of ships, a genre of paintings which occasionally turns up on postcards as well as in galleries. These were received very well by the public and by the French Navy, and he was appointed one of the Painters of the Navy, which meant that he could go on missions as a crew member on military vessels (but only during school holidays, since he was also still teaching.)
The government had made no plans for including the painters of the Navy in any sort of wartime role, and World War II found Blandin working with an infantry regiment before the course of the war lost him that job. He went back to teaching and painting, which he continued until failing eyesight led to his retirement from both those jobs at the age of eighty. (In the meantime, he also compiled, and painted over a thousand illustrations for, a reference guide to all known maritime flags.) He died in 1991, leaving behind a catalogue of paintings unrivalled by other specialist artists.
Somewhere in the vast world of fans and collectors, there MUST be a guide to his 86 Corsaires which explains when he did these paintings, who decided to make them into postcards, and to what degree each is based on someone he knew personally, or whether all these characters and their wild world sprang straight from his imagination. Nowadays there’d be a graphic novel series, animated cartoons, live action movies and who knows what-all else. (Maybe there were, and nobody on the Interwebs wants us landlubbers getting involved.)
According to a website which shows some 75 of the 86, there are 83 men and 3 women in the set. They have many things in common—the red bandana, the clay pipe, the eyepatch—but each is an individual with a backstory we are left to imagine. Because of this, they also do not have birthdates, death dates, or anything else to take them out of a seventeenth-eighteenth century pirate Neverland filled with seaside inns, disreputable hijinx, and high seas adventure. Yar-har, fiddle-dee-dee indeed.
Cool dawn found the park in the possession of those people too busy to use it at any other time. Two men in their sixties and one in his forties were making their way around the track in pursuit of their health, none paying much attention to the woman of indeterminate age whose shorts were torn in the worst possible place. She had torn these on leaving the house; like everyone else in the Park at this hour, she felt she didn’t have much time.
Three tennis players were doggedly indulging in a game of one-and-a-half, since their usual partner for doubles had just been transferred to evening shift. A couple who had been sharing a fast food breakfast on one of the park’s four benches rose and moved hand-in-hand along the cracked concrete path. She bumped a shoulder against his left ear, smiling to show she’d done this on purpose. He smiled back, reaching on tiptoe to kiss her.
Coming down from the kiss, he frowned, and looked behind him. “Sir?” he inquired of the nearest bystander, who was standing a few feet beyond the bench.
“Mm?” The man turned from his apparent consideration of the life of August N. Griese, which had been summarized in metal and riveted to a boulder, and raised an eyebrow at the young lover.
“Sorry,” said the shorter man, turning a darker shade of pink. “But did you just tell me I should remember you?”
The taller man took off his glasses, the better to regard the speaker. The other man tightened his grip on the woman’s hand and started walking again. “Sorry, sir. Must be hearing things. Morning.”
“I heard it too, Petey. It must’ve come from over there.” The lovers moved on. The tall man watched them go, the tiniest of creases between his eyes.
Turning away from the couple, he saw two men setting up a tripod. “You’re the surveyors?” he inquired, stepping across to them. “The last ones set up right there, by that mark.” He pointed.
“Huh? Didn’t see that.” The surveyor nodded. “Thanks. The last guys were about three feet off, though. Hey, Phil! Wanna measure a yard off this mark?”
His partner shrugged. The tall man echoed the shrug, and moved off, which drew the men’s eyes to him just long enough for the little blue X to pick itself up and mince a few inches along the concrete. Because such things cannot happen, the men might not have noticed it in any case.
Certainly they failed to notice their chains stretching as they went about their business. Chains did not stretch. And grey-haired men in suits did not suddenly shimmer and vanish, so they didn’t see that, either.
Those of you who have been paying attention (both of you) will recall my constant wailing about the Real Photo Postcards (rppcs) and found photos which leave us mystified because no one, back in the day, bothered to write anything on the back. Details which might have fleshed out the story of the places and people on the picture simply do not exist, and cannot, after all these years, be salvaged. It is frustrating, and yet…. Do we prefer the couple above as they are, leaving us to make up our own story about the McDonnans and the mysterious disappearances of Walpurgisnacht 1909? Or would we like to know that this was Frank and Stella, who ran the first schoolhouse in Cornsilk, South Dakota?
A recent collection of Found photography, as it is popularly known (the pros prefer “Vernacular Photography”, shots taken by people with cameras as opposed to artists who used their equipment to express a vision) has led me to reconsider the whole question. The shot above is the work of what I call a photographoyeur, a sort of filmic peeping tom whose camera was always ready to catch someone bending over too far. There is nothing on the backside (of the photo) to tell us much and yet, accidentally or on purpose, this picture is identifiable within a few years as to date and can be pinpointed as to place. It turns out that the Thriller Speedboat Tours still go on around Miami Beach. They currently employ boats dubbed 06 Thriller and 08 Thriller. The presence of their 01 speedboat puts this somewhere between 2007 and 2011 or thereabouts. It might be NICE to know who the model was, since she was clearly an ametur (what swimsuit model actually steps into the water?) but we can’t have everything.
THIS photo, on the other hand, IS labelled, to a certain degree. We at least have a date, so we know SOMETHING about the photograph.
The label, however, tells us a whole lot more about the photographoyeur involved. As it stands, we don’t even know for sure if the model ever knew she’d been photographed.
Labels, it seems, give us only what the labeler thought was important at the time, leaving us with certain frustrations which are unlikely to be resolved. Thanks to the person who labeled the three photos in this set, we know the names and date of the Halloween party.
But oh, if only they had included last names, it might be possible to do more research into what is the most burning question presented: What the heckfire was Jerry Supposed to BE? Is he a cat? A Big Bad Wolf? A tumbleweed? The world may never know.
This pre-party picture is unlabeled, presenting the usual questions: who is this showing off her party dress, and what was the occasion? We can see a few decorations, and maybe those plastic tubs contain more. But we do get one hint in a second photo.
A decoration and/or early guest is waving at us from the left. THIS gives us a terminus ad quem, a date beyond which speculation cannot go. Dora the Explorer’s presence makes this a twenty0first century photo, as Dora did not debut until late Fall of 2000. Not much but, as always, Dora helps out.
The person who assembled this collection was a connoisseur of photogravoyeur photography, which includes a few even trickier problems. There are no fewer than four bathing suit photographs with full names and dates. But they leave out the most important data for those of us who pick up found photography for resale. See, these were pre-liposuction photos. What I need to know before offering these for sale is whether the models have relatives who are going to drop by with baseball bats if I show the pix online. I still insist on the basic principle that labels make things a little easier, in spite of pictures like this last one, which is labeled “Jackie clowning. Single, huh?” There are so many things I’d like to…but maybe one of Jackie’s friends still exists to explain. We can always hope.
Folklore has been passed on in many ways throughout the years, from Grandma’s tales to the Interwebs. By “folklore” I mean to suggest any sort of knowledge passed on outside of classroom, from stories of Jack and his adventures with princesses and/or giants to that limerick about the Young Lady from Ryan. Such information may be intoned by Grandma, as above, or scrawled on the restroom wall.
Over the centuries, people have tried to catch this folklore as it passes, lest it be dropped and lost by a heedless generation. Sometimes folk collectors are scholars who hang out in bars to document tales of big fish or traditional song parodies. But sometimes it is the postcard artist who does the job. The song above, for instance, is referenced on a number of postcards, but only the first line. The rest of it is lost, at least as far as I can determine on the Interweb sources.
Some postcard artists, like Hansi, in the reproduction shown here, went out of their way to give us their local lore. Those headdresses, unique to Alsace, can be seen in postcards by other artists (they are that fun to draw) but the girl in the middle is also offering up Kugelhopf, a traditional (and impressive) Alsatian dessert. (Alsace is one of the first parts of Europe to be invaded in time of war, and Hansi had the distinction of facing trouble from enemy soldiers in both World Wars.)
More often postcard artists just used current folklore as a key to entertaining the readers. Here, for instance, we get a happy ending to the story of someone who was thinking about the verse that “Everybody hates me; Nobody loves me” and having to go out in the yard and eat worms. (Now largely forgotten, except among bloggers who may not know the poem, but know the feeling.)
Postcard folklorists are likely, though, to take a turn for the grim. (Sorry about that.) Here we see not only an artist’s rendering of a famous tale, but also a reminder that it is only in English that Little Red wears a “hood”.
This artist is showing us a dramatic point in the tale of Hansel and Gretel, though we see no tempting candy house (and I don’t recall the cat. Maye ALL the witches in folktales had cats, who never got any billing. Note to those still looking for dissertation topics—Forgotten Folktale Cats would get you funding in no time.)
Here’s a rendition of a popular bedtime poem simply meant to be warm and comforting and cute and inspirational.
The artist seems to have given it more thought and produced this version, bringing out the was menace in this folk poetry.
Death is a dramatic and fascinating subject, as far as I can recall from my own bloodthirsty childhood in a bygone century. There were all sorts of formulae handed down on the playgroud to figure out when your own death would take place, and previous generations were no different. I was NOT taught this one until I saw this postcard, but that may simply be because cuckoos (the bird kind) did not hang out in my neighborhood. Back in the day, not one but three of these rhymes gave me the same date in April, 2001 as my date of demise, which was fun because that year was so far away as to be unimaginable. Finding myself in 2001, I had to remind myself several times that this was, after all, merely playground science, like not locking your knees while singing in Chorus.
I did NOT die in 2001, if you were curious, and I cannot even credit any of the counter-spells taught us in folklore, as in this bit of verse which tells us if we smile three times every morning, do not grumble at lunchtime, and sing every night until the worlds rings around us, we will live to be one hundred. I might just try it, though like any other fitness program I didn’t get around to it today, and may just start tomorrow. I wonder which playground savant taught me THAT.
A tremendous party was held as soon as everyone could get inside the castle. Minstrels recited hastily-composed sonnets on snoozing while dulcimers played in the background. People milled around in the grand ballroom taking refreshments from long tables against the walls. Dimity sat at a high table in the back of the room where everyone could see she was alive, even if she did spend a lot of time yawning and setting her head down on the table. The three knights she had introduced as Sir Ae, Sir Bee, and Sir Ceee sat near her, as yawning and dusty as the princess.
Things had to be explained to Dimity several times: how she had been asleep for more than a day, and had spent most of that time over Sir Ceee’s shoulder. “I thought I felt bruises on my stomach,” she said.
While the castle musicians were setting things up for a grand dance, another dusty tired man entered the ballroom. He spoke to a guard, and was then led up to the thrones of the King and Queen. He handed up a sealed letter.
The King broke the seal, read through the letter, laughed, and passed it to the Queen. She smiled as she read it, and then handed it back. The King rose and called for silence.
“This good messenger,” he announced, “Has come by swift horse on the long road south of the Grove of Nasty Nights, with a message from our fellow ruler to the east. Her Majesty asks that we watch for her three sons, Prince Alain, Prince Archels, and Prince Affretz, who come seeking adventure and may need help or supplies if they make their way through the haunted forest.”
Several people in the audience guessed at once, and cheered in approval. Sir Ae, Sir Bee, and Sir Ceee stood up to bow.
“Are you princes?” demanded Dimity. “I never guessed!”
“They must have been, you know,” said the Queen. “Since you did fall asleep.”
Dimity, frowned, thinking that over. “Oh! I forgot.”
Somebody laughed. “Well, I was tired!” said the princess.
The King started to explain the whole nosiness of the curse at the christening, which the princes had not heard before. Someone shouted “Look!”
One punchbowl had begun to emit huge violet bubbles. These rose into the air, bunching together. With a little “pop” they fell together into one immense pink bubble. This bubble hovered for a moment and then disappeared with a second “pop”.
In its place stood two fairies, Camomile and Snowdrop. The celebrating people, who had reason to be wary of fairies, pulled back from them.
“Er, welcome!” said the King. “To what do we owe this, er, pleasure?”
“If you had to eat nuts and berries all the livelong week in a forest,” said Camomile, “You’d jump at a chance to get a free meal, too.” She reached out and caught up an éclair from a refreshments table.
“Besides,” said Snowdrop, “I think there’s a happy ending coming on.”
Archels, who recognized his brother’s fairy godmother from pictures, strode forward. “We looked for you for years! Now tell us, if you please! Why did you put that curse on our brother Affretz?”
Snowdrop raised her nose at the prince. “Curse? Rubbish! That was a gift. I figured there ought to be one prince, anyhow, who could grow up without thinking all the time how great he was. I thought he might very likely turn out to be the nicest and most thoughtful prince, and that’s the type, you know, who rescues princesses. And you see that I was right!” She nodded to Snowdrop, who was now nibbling a prune kolace.
“Did you plan all of this?” Princess Dimity demanded.
Snowdrop shrugged. “Why don’t we say we did pan all this and then give three cheers for fairies?”
Nobody seemed especially inclined to give even one cheer. “Hmm,” said Camomile, around a mouthful of pastry. “Maybe a few repairs are in order.”
“A few repairs it is,” said Snowdrop.
The fairies waved their hands. Dimity’s mud-stained clothes were replaced by a ballgown of shimmering white, with a silver coronet appearing in her hair, now combed and excellently in order. Instead of their dusty traveling clothes, the princes now wore royal garb, Alain in a white suit fitted with sapphires, Archels in basic white sprinkled with rubies, And Affretz resplendent in white and emeralds. Weariness dropped from their faces, and as the three princes came forward together, people did start to cheer.
“Oh!” Affretz looked down at his feet and then at Snowdrop. “I’m not limping! I can walk like anyone! I….”
He had caught sight of his face in a polished silver plate. “But I’m still ugly!”
“Well, yes, you look like that,” said Snowdrop. “The limp was just kind of an afterthought, but I did say you were going to be the ugliest prince in the world, and you have to keep that.”
While the princes all thought that over, Snowdrop strolled over to the princess. “Now, let’s wrap up all the business. Which of these princes do you want to marry?” She was pointing at one prince in particular, if the princess needed help deciding.
Dimity stuck out her chin. “I don’t have to marry anybody. I was just rescued, that’s all.”
“Don’t mind her.” Camomile threw a wink in Snowdrop’s direction. “Some fairies are way too romantical. Which of these princes would you like as a partner for the first dance?”
Dimity was about to object to that, too, but, realizing she wasn’t tired now, looked around the room. The people were cheering, the palace musicians (who knew all her favorite songs) were ready to begin, and there were, after all, three well-dressed princes just standing there.
“I really can’t decide,” she said, and, walking over to Affretz, demanded, “Why don’t you just ask me to dance, so I don’t have to make up my mind?”
Affretz shrugged. “You don’t have to dance with me,” he said, “Just because you’re grateful and think you have to…..”
“I’m grateful to all of you,” she said. “And I’m going to dance with all of you.” She nodded to Alain and Archels before turning back to Affretz. “But you first.”
He looked her full in the face. She didn’t wince. “Don’t you think I’m ugly.”
“I KNOW you’re ugly,” she told him, reaching out to take his hand. “What I want to find out if you can dance, now that you’re not limping any more.”
“I’d like to find that out, too,” said the ugliest prince in the world.
There is little more story to tell. The three princes, who danced long and late with Princess Dimity and the other ladies of court, and finally led the whole room in three cheers for the fairies, stayed at the castle for several months, discussing with the King and Queen different plans for clearing out the Forest of Dreary Dreans, as well as how to get through the massive thornbushes to get into the silent castle within. But before anyone had agreed on a plan for either chore, a messenger arrived from their mother about a giant stealing sheep in their fields back home. The princes all hurried home, and had their hands full for some time with the giant and, as it turned out, his bigger brothers and especially huge uncle.
Dimity wrote letters to the princes after they left, and occasionally delivered these herself, though she generally took the road around the forest, lest Gelvander be waking up. She would stay with the queen there for a week or two, once in a while helping out with one of the giants. Sometimes Affretz would ride back with her to her parents’ castle for a visit.
Dimity learned early on that the more you got to know someone, the less you actually looked at his face. No one, except Alain, a little, was surprised when Dimity and Affretz were married. The story of Unsleeping Beauty and the Three Princes was sung throughout the land and, in its day, was more famous than the story of her cousin, still asleep in that castle surrounded by thorns. That story hadn’t ended yet, because the right prince hadn’t come along yet.
As you will certainly recall from our last thrilling installment, this column has been using the power of the Interwebs to warn you of summer dangers which the self-styled guardians of our safety will not talk about. Though you may search online as you please, no one but the postcard cartoonists have bothered to bring us the True Facts regarding the attraction of shellfish to women in bathing suits. I hope you have added appropriate precautions to your plans for this summer. (Even if that’s no more than ordering steak and lobster every time you run out to Arby’s for lunch.)
There are other perils of summer living which I have hunted diligently amid those brochures sent out by national parks and public beaches. I have seen dire predictions of what will happen if you decide to get out of your car and pet that baby bear, and assurances that if sharks are sighted offshore, you are in no danger if you take certain precautions (withdrawing to a safe vantage point: Boise, Idaho, for example.) But I have found no description of what I sometimes refer to as the Meaty Meteor.
For years, however, our postcard artists have responded to the call. If no one else will warn the public about humans dropping out of the sky during your leisure moments, THEY are ready to make us aware of the problem at hand. (Or whatever part of the vacationer is the target. The phrase “problem at tummy” didn’t sound quite right.)
I know, I know: people have mentioned it. I’m glad somebody is worrying about these important topics, but I think the artists are on my side. Referring to “Meaty Meteors” may seem to be a misnomer, as a “meteor” refers to an object flying through the air, often seen at night as it ignites on entering the Earth’s atmosphere. Those meteors which actually make impact are correctly referred to as “meteorites”. Therefore, these people inform me, I ought to speak of “Meaty Meteorites”, as impact is implied.
But the postcard artists never actually show the impact. Their soft identifiable flying objects are always just about to strike, giving viewers the opportunity to play a quick game of “What Happens Next Is” in the privacy of their own imaginations. So I think I am safe in preferring the shorter name.
As with the previous column’s warning about shellfish, this phenomenon is largely gender-specific. (Lobsters pinch the women on the backside, but men on the toes.) When the Meaty Meteor is female, they always seem about to land on a stomach, or, as seen in the preceding example, on the head of the unlucky male victim.
A Male Meaty Meteor (or MMM, as those scientists in the know call them) seems to be a lot more focused. (Note, by the way, that the experts we have consulted seem to have found no same-sex meteor impacts. More research is surely needed.) This leads me to wonder whether the masculine version of the Meaty Meteor is somehow a late form evolved from the common postcard crab, or Beach Pincher. But I will leave that up to graduate students looking for a dissertation topic. My job is to bring the message of the postcard artists to your attention. Remember: that next plump plummet may have your name on it.
We have spoken, hereintofore, of the postcard as an early form of social media, as a repository of bygone songs and jokes, and as a certificate for travelers to verify the places they had visited. The postcard had many more roles in our history than as a means of saying “My Room Marked With X.” But have we spoken of it sufficiently as a guidebook to parts of life so hidden, so dark, that travel guides, advice columnists, and even Wikipedia will not address? Where else can we go for a description of the real dangers of the beach vacation?
Oh, sure. Anyone will tell you about sunburn, mosquito bites, and even jellyfish stings. But to the person…let’s not mince words here. To the woman who has donned that bathing suit of this summer’s frolics, will no one speak of the hazards presented by local wildlife and the seasonally-exposed posterior?
I have researched the question extensively (I asked both Google AND Bing) and nowhere can I find any statistics about the number of merry vacationers who joyfully headed into the water and wound up being unable to sit down for the rest of their stay because of crab attacks. This can only be conspiracy. The crustacean lobby has gotten to the purveyors of information on the Interwebs and concealed this threat, for fear of cutting off this source of entertainment for crabby influencers, whom we shall call the Deep Blue C.
But (and I use that word with some trepidation) our friends the postcard cartoonists are looking out for us. THEY are not afraid to depict the truth of matters suppressed by our so-called information sources.
They alone are willing to show us the shock and horror of the situation, the sheer terror of…oh, sure, maybe some people will tell us they just thought butts were a quick provider of cheap laughs. But the truth sticks out in their efforts.
It isn’t just the crabs, of course. Lobsters indulge in molestation of the female situpon, and fish are serial offenders (possibly even searial offenders, if my spellcheck will allow that. I think the spelling and grammar programs on computers are part of the conspiracy, too, but that won’t surprise anybody.)
Fish may be a little more subtle than their neighbors with pincers, but they do, according to the postcard artists, accomplish just as much damage, especially to married felicity, as any lobster.
And they know what they’re up to. Over and over, we see the same critters attacking men. But here they go for other targets. “Toe of Man But Lady’s Rump: That’s the Way to Make Them Jump” is one possible translation of cryptic engravings on rocks found at the bottom of the sea. (Provided I can find a picture of some rocks with cryptic inscriptions. If I do, I dare you to prove that’s NOT what the cryptic lettering says. Never mind the work of Professor Fossilthwaite in 1927, who claimed these writings—which were lost but which he made replicas of in his lab, using Play-Doh—said “Ask Any Mermaid You Happen to See” OR the subsequent pamphlet by Dr. Phoeble, which translated the cryptic script as “There Once Was a Gal In the Ocean, Who….” Where were we?)
And then we have experts like Herman Melville, who pointed out that when one of these watery predators go after men from behind, they may have other things in mind entirely. But (and there’s that word again. Coincidence? I think not.) our postcard artists are right there wherever situpons are in peril, to bring us the True Facts, give us fair warning, and, incidentally, provide us with an excuse to show off their postcards (an artform where the fullest message was on the back side. Another Coincidence? Ha!)
Affretz did not recognize the hand that caught at his boot, but knew at once it could have nothing to do with the flower. He grabbed it, more because it was dragging him into the hole than any other reason.
A dirty but familiar face gazed up at him, and then Deedee seemed to go limp. Affretz caught her elbow with both hands as she started to fall backward, and hauled her up. He had expected her to be lighter somehow. Archels’s muscles would have had her out in a trice, but his brother was still busy tearing up the hungry flower.
“Ack!” Alain stumbled from the blossom and moved forward like someone walking through deep snow. Archels ripped the rest of the flower out of the ground and threw it as far as he could. As the flower passed the waiting trees, branches reached down to tear it to shreds.
“Now, brothers,” said Archels, dusting off his hands, “Let’s go see about that ogre.”
Alain sat down. “If it’s an ogre who planted that plant, I want no part of him. You’d need gardeners, not princes, to fight him. Let’s go find that castle with the thorns around it, the way we planned.”
Archels, meanwhile, had walked over to the hole in the ground. “Are you down there, fiend?”
Affretz could not get Deedee to stand up. She seemed to be asleep, but no matter how he shook her, she would not open her eyes.
“Let’s go,” said Alain, standing up again. “Where are the horses?”
Affretz let go of Deedee to point, but had to catch her again before she fell. “What?” Alain demanded. “You just left them somewhere for the fiend to find?”
“Well, the dragon said….”
“The dragon!” Alain tried to draw his sword, but it was stuck in its sheath by juices from the flower.
“You explain it to him,” said Archels. “I’ll go get the wagon.”
He strode off into the grim forest, leaving Affretz to get Alain caught up on the day’s events. Deedee slept through the story, and when Archels returned, he was still walking.
“They aren’t hurt,” he said, leading the horses forward, “But they aren’t much good for riding. The noises in this forest have scared them half to death.”
“We can lead them out of here,” Alain declared. Affretz picked up Deedee, whom he had set on the ground while he talked.
“What are you going to do with her?” demanded Archels.
Affretz stopped. “Put her in the wagon, of course. Two of us can lead the horses and one of us can pull the wagon.”
“I don’t mind pulling the wagon,” said Archels, “But I won’t take it all the way with her in it. She’s a servant of the ogre!”
“She is not!” said Affretz.
“If it hadn’t been for her,” Archels went on, rubbing a couple of places on his arm where the amber grease had pulled skin loose, “We’d be at that castle right now, cutting through the thorns. Instead, she led us this way, where we ran afoul of fiends.”
“She didn’t lead us,” Affretz replied. “We all went this way together. She’s just a damsel under a curse.”
“Damsel?” Alain exclaimed. “What would a real damsel be doing walking alone in a forest like this? Look at her! Would a real damsel look like that? She’s a fiend, or a fiend’s helper!”
Mud and leave and dirt were all over Dimity’s hands and feet and clothes. Affretz brushed some of this away. “That’s just because the ogre took her prisoner, and kept her underground. She’s under a curse. Can’t you tell by the way she’s sleeping?”
He stood her up ad shook her. “Sknxxxx,” snored Deedee.
“She might sleep for a hundred years, if that’s part of the curse,” said Archels. “You can’t carry her that long.”
“I could,” said Affretz, lifting her to one shoulder. “I can’t help being ugly, but I can help being lazy!”
“Anyway, one of us should have his hands free, if we’re going to be leading the horses and the wagon. In case there are fiends to fight. Maybe we SHOULD put her in the wagon.”
The princes were all three a bit sore, and a bit tired, so the argument went on for some time. They had expected to have problems during their adventure, but getting trapped by fiends shaped like trees and flowers was not something that was supposed to happen to the bravest and strongest princes in the world. Fiends were supposed to come out in the open shouting, where a prince could use a sword on them. So far, only Affretz had had any real fight, and HIS fiend had gotten away.
The brothers finally marched away along the path, all of them fairly annoyed with each other. Archels led two horses and the wagon while Alain led the other two horses. Affretz carried Deedee, and found this a serious chore on the rough and uneven path. Every third step, the limping prince tripped, nearly dropping her.
The damsel noticed none of this. “Skronx,” she snored.
After an hour of silent marching, the princes reach the main path again, and set off west agan. Taking turns to sleep couldn’t be managed now, so when night started to fall, they stopped to make camp. A fire was built to frighten away night fiends. Affretz, since he was the last one who’d had any sleep, stayed awake on watch.
There was nothing much for him to see but a few moths with fangs, who flew toward the fire until chases away with his sword. To keep himself awake, he spent his time trying to get Deedee to open her eyes. Shaking was no use, and he couldn’t shout, lest this wake his brothers. He did try splashing some water on her, but when that didn’t do anything, he used it to wash the dirt from her face and hands.
She was still snoring “Honk-snoop” when the Alain and Archels woke In the morning.
“You must be right, brother,” said Archels, who was feeling better now. “It must be a curse. I’ll carry her a ways now, if you like.”
“No, thank you,” said Affretz, picking her up again. “You can lead the horses.”
They found no fiends as they continued to march westward. The princes were thinking of pausing for lunch when they stepped out from among the trees dripping with dead moss, and saw there was a world beyond the trees after all.
“I thought the shadow of these trees would go on forever,” sighed Archels.
“Look!” Alain pointed his sword at a great shadow before them. The three princes studied the dark, silent castle surrounded by huge bushes that bristled with thorns.
Prince Alain shook his head. “I don’t mind danger,” he said, “But I don’t feel like fighting any more plants right now. Let’s go to that village down there, and rest. We ca come back later.”
The sun was starting to set behind the village when they saw the second castle beyond it. “Even better,” said Archels. “We can leave Deedee at a inn in the village, get fresh horses, and ride to the castle. The people there can likely tell us anything we need to know about those thornbushes.”
“Leave her!” said Affretz. “But….”
“Sssssh,” said Alain. “Let me do the talking here. And maybe you’d better stay in the back, so they won’t see your face.”
The first building they found on the edge of the village was an inn called The Castle and Thorn. Bright lights had been lit, showing that it was enjoying a great deal of business. The princes smelled the food cooking.
The owner was standing by the door, waiting to welcome guests, and started forward. He smiled on the first two men he saw, but frowned a bit on seeing a third and much uglier man carrying a woman. “Here, now!” he said, as Archels started to tie up the horses outside the front door. “Don’t you be bringing that in here! We’re not looking for any trouble!”
Alain stepped forward. “Sir, all we need….”
“I don’t have any!” The innkeeper came forward and started to untie the first horse. “You’d best be going to….”
Affretz had started to set Deedee down against the hitching rail. The innkeeper reached out to push her away, but seeing her face, jumped back.
“She’s…That’s…Is she d…d….”
“She pronounced it differently,” said Archels.
“D-dead?” stammered the innkeeper.
“No,” said Affretz. “Deedee.”
The innkeeper went whiter than the wall of his inn. “D.D.!” he cried. “Doubly Dead?”
The princes started to reply, but the innkeeper, turning, shouted—no, screamed for his wife. “Allabeth! Come quickly! The princess has been killed twice!”
“No!”
Archels took two steps away from the innkeeper and the dirty damsel who was getting them into trouble again. “Don’t be running away!” shrieked the innkeeper. “Someone has to be explaining to the King and Queen!”
Not just the innkeeper’s wife but everyone at the inn came outside. At the sight of Deedee hanging limp against the hitching rail, men threw their hats on the ground and women tore at their hair. A little girl sat down in the roadway to cry. Affretz heard a dog howl.
Naturally, all this noise brought people from other buildings along the road. The three princes soon found themselves in the middle of a crowd too big for even Archels to push his way through.
“You stupid people!” he shouted. “Listen to me!”
“Listen to HER!” Alain bellowed. “She’s snoring!”
Shouting did not seem to make anything clearer. People were coming up to touch Deedee, as if to see whether she was real. Affretz, afraid they’d knock her over, picked her up. This seemed to call for even more shouting and less listening.
“Make way! Make way!”
“I want to see!”
“The princess is dead twice!”
“Dead twice! Dead twice! How can anyone be dead twice?”
“Well, she was royal.”
“Who will tell the King? Who will tell the Queen?”
“Who did it?”
“Who are those three men?”
“Are they princes?”
“The ugly one’s a fiend!”
“The fiend killed her and the two princes caught him!”
“Aye, and made him carry her, the way we do with dogs that kill chickens!”
“They killed her like a chicken!”
“They all killed her! She’s three times dead!”
“They’re all fiends!”
“Aw, the nice-looking one can’t be a fiend!”
The crowd was moving, bustling all together, away from the inn and down the rod, pushing and pulling each other and dragging not only the three princes and the double-dead Deedee but the horses and wagon as well. Alain could see they were all moving toward tht other castle, and reached out to push Archels’s hand down when Archels reached for his sword. That would not help matters at all.
The castle guards, seeing the huge, screaming crowd, closed one side of the front gates, and moved to stand in front of the open half. They called a challenge but no one heard it.
“The princess!” people screamed. “The princess is dead! She was killed five times! Dimity is dead!”
The captain of the guard arrived with twice as many guards. The king was with him.
“Dead!” someone shouted. “Your Majesty, she’s dead! Seven fiends killed her nine times!”
The king held up a hand and the crowd subsided a little, though quite a lot of people went on shouting, having come late to the mob.
“Who is dead, good people?” His Majesty demanded.
“The princess!” replied a chorus of voices, ragged with grief, anger, and excitement. “The princess! Princess Dimity is dead!”
The King stepped back as if someone had hit him. Then he stepped forward, both hands raised. “Have you proof of this, good people?”
The crowd started to pull to the sides of the road, going quiet as they raised their hands to point at a small group at their center. The King stepped forward and everyone fell silent, except for one angry shout.
“Can’t a person get a little sleep around here?”
Affretz nearly dropped Deedee, but instead set her on her feet and hugged her. She was not pleased about this.
“YOU got to seep for HOURS,” she snapped. “And no one woke YOU up!”
Then she jammed her hands over her ears as the crowd roared.
One of my grandfathers was an enthusiastic outdoorsman. He had no patience with people who thought picnics were a way to enjoy nature and slight tolerance for people who thought camping required a tent. HIS idea of an outdoor vacation was two weeks off the trail with a sleeping bag and a frying pan. There were giants in those days.
Postcard artists, especially after mid-century, when people on vacation were the main customers for postcards, were willing to show both sides of the story, to suit whatever mood vacationers were in. Some postcards cast doubt on the joys of a return, however temporary, to nature.
Taking your tent out into the woods meant fairly primitive amenities (though these were not without SOME compensations.)
And they were willing to go into some detail on the surprises which could be caused by your neighbors in the wild. And you thought the walls were thin in your city apartment.
Yet, there are always those who enjoy the change I their routine, even if it comes in the form of a loud creature right next door.
There was, as some of you will recall, a war around mid-century, where tents were put to a great deal of use. My grandfather was at the peak of his camping out years (he started his multi-decade career as a Boy Scout leader by accident: he was just standing in for a man who was going to take over the troop, but that man was drafted and the rest is history. His wife became a Girl Scout leader around the same time, and they raised three children partly in the woods. None of these three children developed much enthusiasm for camping, tent or no tent.)
When he would talk about how camping OUGHT to be done, tent-free, he was bound to hear from someone who would point out that our military insisted on tents when troops were in the field. His response was simple: enjoying nature was not the focus of these camping trips and the troops weren’t out there to have fun. They had to make do with whatever the officers decided was good for them.
There were tents and tents, of course, and much of the tent humor of World War II dealt with the smaller pup tents. The cartoonists suggested that sleeping in those was difficult. I have heard from veterans that sleep in any form was a treasure not to be scorned, and tents were as good as anything else.
In fact, some men found tents entirely too comfortable.
Which did not mean they weren’t as happy as most anybody else to get back to civilization after a long camping trip. Of course, to them, getting out of the tent and heading to town was the START of their vacation. That can make all the difference.
Blogsy Babbles 